C'est Le Ballet
by MiniSouffleCafe
Summary: In the darkness of his shop lies a man that never talks, never laughs, and never shows his face. One little dancer would soon change that.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** **Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you've all had a wonderful day, I know I have. (Family, friends, and Doctor Who merchandise galore.) As for this story, it will be about four to five chapters I assume. It's up to your imagination to set the time period, but I guessing at early 1900's. (I don't even know for sure, haha.)  
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**P.S. For those who know of the musical _Little Dancer_, it's songs are what inspired me to write this! **

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><p><strong><em>C'est Le Ballet<em>**

Friends were never really his cup of tea.

But then again, people in general never really were either.

The darkness had consumed him long ago in the midst of his toy repair shop; his only light one of a dim oil lamp, and that itself seemed to burn too bright. He was caged, and wholeheartedly enjoyed it. Every few days or so a broken packaged toy would slide through his mail slot with the designated amount of money to cover the cost of repairs, and in a matter of days, it came out as if it were newly bought.

Of course the man was kind; he'd always wrap the toy back up again and, on occasions, even wrote a letter containing thorough instructions on how to care for it. Then, placing it inside his personal postbox, the deliverer would pick it up and send it to the return address. It was a private company; nobody saw the face behind the work, and that was the way he was intending to keep it.

The man dreaded the holiday season, not because of a misled childhood or loneliness, but because business was rather slow. Hardly anyone sent for repairs; who would when they had the excuse of buying gifts for their loved ones? Though he had no family, he tried to understand to the best of his ability.

He shrugged on his favorite coat, navy blue with a bright red lining, and sitting down at his workbench, tried to find things to pass his time. No packages had come in the past two weeks, and though he wasn't prone to complaining, he was becoming rather impatient. A carving tool twirled at his fingertips as the sound of the clock ticking filled his ears with a rhymed peace, one that only lead him to contemplating. _Time. A simple countdown to death. _He laughed to himself. Such morbidity.

How he wished he could bend it, time itself, for his life would be far more entertaining than it was now. Visit the ruins of ancient Greece, or the damned society that was to come in the later centuries. The man smiled at the thought. _What an impossibility. _

Suddenly, there was another noise that had captured his attention. The rattling of the knob at the front door, as if someone were trying to get in. It was a sound that he seldom heard, therefore became rather startled at its presence.

Then came the knocking.

It had started out as a quiet little rap, but increased its power as the seconds went by without the man saying a word. He wanted to hide, shrivel away as if to prove a point that social interaction wasn't his forte. "Hello?" a young female voice called from the outside. "Hello, I'm here seeking a toy repair man? They said it was the best in town, and I just figured-" She cut herself off to heave a sigh. "I'm talking to nothing, aren't I-"

"U-Use the mail slot." His old voice croaked, the first words he had said in a while. There was silence from the other side for a moment, he pondered over whether or not he had scared the girl off. Just then, an index and middle finger poked through the slot, a pair of soft brown eyes behind it. "Well," the mysterious girl said. "How am I going to get through this? I'm not thin as paper, sir."

At first he was bewildered at her dry humor, then after a few minutes of processing, he finally understood. _Oh. _The man thought to himself. _She wants to come inside. _"Oh, you can't come in; most certainly not." he blurted out, noticing his rude tone. It was simply a matter of his thoughts speaking before his conscious could grant permission.

One of the girl's eyebrows lifted. "Willingly, I am a paying customer, am I not?"

He couldn't comprehend the girl's repetitious questioning. "A first time customer, I see," he commented harshly. She didn't reply, her silence earning her a sigh from the man. "Just slide the package through the mail slot; I'll have it delivered to your address once I'm finished." he explained, a process in which he thought everyone understood by this point in the business.

There was a slight pause from the young woman. "But, sir, I want to talk to you first before I leave you with my possessions, is that not reasonable enough for me to come inside?"

"What, you don't trust me?"

"_You're_ the one who labeled me as a first time customer, I'd assume you'd put two and two together." she snapped, taking the man aback. He had been caught in a mess of his own words, and now there was nothing else he could do to send the girl away without him having the final word. _I always have the final word. _He told himself with confidence. Yet it lowered generously as soon as he met eyes with the crouched woman in the doorway.

"Listen, it's either I get hypothermia trying to argue with you, or I leave and you lose a customer. It's your choice." the girl said, and with that, closed the mail slot, leaving him in the dark of his own little shop. He felt an odd feeling tingling underneath the warmth of his sweater, for he was torn between decisions. Let the girl in and let her see the disarray that he lived in, or send her away with him being eternally stultified.

On the other side of the door, the girl was becoming rather cross. _The best toy repair shop in town. _They said. _Well, they were dead wrong. _She thought to herself. The lack of respect she had received in three minutes had enough to insult her for weeks; it was entirely impolite.

Just then, the sound of the door unlocking surprised her furthermore as it creaked open, but the man behind it was the most bizarre thing of them all. _A grey-haired stick insect. _She concluded as she carefully observed his lanky figure, with his threatening eyebrows and incredibly intimidating stare. "Well, you wanted entrance; don't just stand there!" he scowled as disappeared back into the solitude of the building. The young woman was hesitant to enter, for she wondered about what lurked in the shadows of his hiding.

Her first step was one that sent a shiver up her spine as the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, her voice seeming to tremble as she asked, "Would it kill you to shed some light around this place?"

"Only have one lamp." he replied frankly, settling himself down again before turning their small talk another direction. "So, toy? What's the problem?"

He heard the door closing in the distance, a petite figure appearing in the darkness as well as a few facial features. A retroussé nose, soft eyes, and a smile that became difficult to describe. "Well, it's not exactly a toy, but I consider it to be one." The young woman then began to search through the satchel slung around her shoulder. "It's this music box I inherited from my mother, and I want to give it to my daughter for Christmas."

His threatening eyebrows lifted at her words. Judging by what he had seen, he wouldn't have expected her to be older than eighteen. His silence seemed to support this theory, for the young woman looked up to face the man. "I may not look it, but I am twenty-eight for your information." she stated flatly.

"I wasn't curious." he said in defense.

"No, but you were critical." she responded. It was as if his eyes were a clear window to his thoughts, and apparently this girl had an impressive view. "Aha, here it is!" she announced as she took a small velvet box into her hands. "It's a beautiful thing, really; it's just the wind-up is broken and it won't play." She paused to admire the heirloom. "Money's not an issue; it's just that Christmas is only in a matter of days, and my husband-"

"Leave it here." he interrupted her gruffly. "I'll see what I can do, I'm sure it won't be a problem." She was quiet for a moment, as if she were inwardly saying goodbye to her little treasure, and with a steady hand, she placed it on the work bench. "Can I trust you?" she asked, too formally for the man's taste.

"Life is full of taking chances, Miss...?" he trailed of, realizing that he didn't even know her name.

"Clara." she put in. "Clara Oswald."

"Well, Miss Clara Oswald, I can assure you that your music box is in safe hands, and if not, I offer my dearest apologies in advance."

She crinkled her nose just a bit. "That doesn't seem at all convincing."

He shrugged. "What can I say?"

Sighing to herself, Clara only nodded her head, and meeting gazes one last time, she pivoted on her heel and walked away. The man sat back in his chair, rather fond of having a visitor to talk to, for it was a chance to feel less alone, and though he would never say it aloud, he would take any chance that was offered to him.

"Oh," Clara exclaimed once she was in the doorway, turning to face him yet again. "And what shall I call you, sir?"

He pondered over this for a moment, for it wasn't often that he was asked his name. By this point in time, he wouldn't be surprised if he had forgotten it. "Call me The Doctor." he finally replied, for even though he enjoyed the company of this young woman, he was still firm about keeping himself well unknown, as hidden as the universe would allow.

Clara scoffed. "A doctor of toys, I presume?"

A smile swept his features at an instant, for he liked the sound of it. "A doctor of toys, indeed."

Smiling back at him, Clara finally stepped back out into the cold, away from the darkness at which was now shared. "Well then, goodbye Doctor."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** **Okay, we're gonna go back in time a few years for this chapter, so you get to see a little more of Clara's perspective in her earlier years. A few familiar characters might also arise!  
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><p><em><strong>September 15th, 1895<strong>_

"You are late, mademoiselle."

"Yes, Madame Vastra; I can see that very well." Clara remarked without a trace of doubt in her tone, earning a few snickers from the other ballerinas in the rehearsal room. Clara was always one for her notorious behavior. Madame Vastra's face twisted into a look of pure disgust as she hit her black wooden cane on the the floor, scaring her students to a deathly silence. Straightening their postures and carefully adjusting their feet, they placed themselves into their preparatory positions; the change was rather drastic. "As punishment for your tardiness young lady," Madame Vastra said with a menacing glare towards Clara. The young ballerina looked down at her shoes, worn and faded, waiting for the worst to come."You will be given a two franc fine."

Clara's took of triumph and confidence had long disappeared. "Two francs-?" she cried, stepping out of her position to protest. "Madame, you know I cannot afford that-!"

"Caring for your mother again I presume?" she queried, eying the girl warily.

She nodded diligently. "Yes Madame; you know how ill she's been."

Madame Vastra stopped for a moment, as if to consider this as a decent excuse for her tardiness. Clara looked wholeheartedly hopeless, simply praying that the old woman still had at least a sliver of sympathy in her to let her go. Madame Vastra was nothing other than an intimidating dance choreographer in a wrinkled taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. She was one whose temper should never be tested, one whose offers you could never say no to, one who's wardrobe only consisted of black even though nobody was dead.

"Then her illness has earned you a fine." she snapped, and her decision was final. She was intent on disciplining the girl, for her audacious attitude and notorious tongue wasn't going to tell _her _what to do. Clara's eyes narrowed in anger, as if she simply wanted to slap the woman, then softening dramatically with a raise of her eyebrows, she replied, "Alright madame, but this _fine_ may just kill her."

Her fellow ballerinas accompanied her snarky remark with scandalous gasps and murmurs, Madame Vastra's face boiling with outrage and embarrassment as she announced, "_Silence! _Come now, we must rehearse. Christmas Eve will be here faster than you anticipate it to be, so we must prepare." She then clapped her hands twice. "Wings on, positions ready. We'll be reviewing the choreography for the opening number." A few tired groans came from the group of ballerinas as a teacher assistant began passing out the basket full of costume accessories.

"But Madame," one called out with a raised hand, a pout on her face as if she were trying her hardest not to whine. Clara couldn't quite place a name on her. "We've already _done_ the opening number."

"Yes," Madame Vastra replied smoothly, a coiling smile on her lips. "But a certain little ballerina arrived to rehearsal late, I recall; and I simply cannot afford for any of you to miss out. You can thank her for that." Clara felt her face warm up, a blush tingling up her neck and ears; she didn't need to look around to notice that some of the girls around her were glaring in her direction. Pulling at the elastic of her fairy wings, she kept her head down. "Positions girls, _now!_" Madame announced, banging her cane on the floor in tempo to the music. The pianist started playing, and instinctively, the ballerinas tried to their last breath to please.

The Paris Opera Ballet was a second home to the talented, but many considered it a sanctuary from the slums of the city itself, especially in Clara's point of view. Her group consisted of desperate beginners who danced for their meals. All of them knew that dance was to be their first and foremost priority, but for many of them, that wasn't the case. _Pointed-toe rats, they call us. _Clara would remind herself on a daily basis, for she often questioned herself on what she was doing in the first place. The pay wasn't extraordinary, the stress was unbearable, and her feet hurt like hell. _Why am I even here? _

Clara was well aware of her hidden potential, but her behavior seemed to speak out for her more than her talent did. In addition to that, she had already been warned of her ragged toe shoes, Madame saying that if they weren't cleaned and mended by December, she wouldn't be permitted to perform until beginners received replacements in January. _I could have bought them sooner if I hadn't received a two franc fine. _Clara thought to herself while demonstrating the perfection of her chassés. Her family was already in enough debt to last two lifetimes, and her ballet fines weren't helping at all.

She couldn't help but smile as Nina kept having to readjust her headband, for it threw her off as what was supposed to be her antennae kept falling in her face. Madame Vastra seemed to notice it too. "Mademoiselle Ross," she called out, Nina stopping entirely in her tracks, which caused Elena to bump into the poor girl. Madame silenced the piano man. "Ross, is there a problem? Have you forgotten the choreography?"

"N-No, ma'am," Nina sputtered out nervously, yanking the headband off of her head. "It was my headband-"

"Is that what you intend to do the night of the performance?" Madame spat. "Flaunt off your feet, as if your vanity were more important?"

The girl seemed to whither away, her eyes fixed onto the ground. "No, ma'am."

Madame Vastra released a sigh of exasperation, shaking her head not only at Nina, but at the group as a whole. She could see the pained expressions upon their faces, for she truly believed that they were trying their best. It's just that their best wasn't good enough. Tightening her grip on the wooden cane she held, Madame Vastra took a deep breath and yelled out, "From the beginning!"

"Madame-!" Clara huffed furiously, wanting to rip her hair out. Nina Ross was her best friend, compatible in every way, from the saucy attitude to the childhood dreams; she couldn't see her cringe under the power of their dance instructor.

"I want no word from you, Oswald. I want no word from any of you." she scowled, and Clara recognized her tone. It was similar to the calm before a storm.

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><p>It was sprinkling that evening.<p>

She had managed to push herself through the heavy wooden door, her father's coat hanging loose upon her shoulders, its sleeves sliding far past her fingertips. Clara liked to take it with her to ballet, for his smell and sense of warmth seemed to convince her that maybe there truly was some hope in the world of chaos in which she lived in. It blocked her away from all of the tension that had built up inside of her from that day.

Boots clunking heavily down onto the sidewalk, Clara pulled the coat tighter around her tiny figure as the wind slapped against her face as if it were angry with her. She didn't know what she had done to upset it in the first place.

Suddenly, she realized that the coat wasn't the only thing that gave her warmth. There was a soft sound, faint yet fighting mightily against the howling winds. It was the music of a violin. Her head peeked up like a puppy's, eyes quietly observing the area to find the source of that beautiful music. Feet working at a quicker pace now, Clara turned the next corner, hoping to find something to satisfy her growing curiosity. And sure enough, she did.

Right in front of a restaurant window, one that was certainly too luxurious for Clara's money and taste, there was a boy. A teenager. Enough scruff on his face to be called a young man. He was rather distinctive when she compared him to the others quietly listening as he played his violin. For one, he was dressed just like her. Clothes people would find in the trash or at second hand thrift stores. Immediately Clara felt attracted, as if there was a sudden need to absorb everything there was to know about him.

She could have labeled him as handsome in the beginning. But as her eyes adjusted onto him, she decided not to. Maybe somewhere in between. There were so many aspects of him that Clara just wanted to ask, _Why? _Why did his brown locks of hair suspend the way it did? Why did his eyes seem to gleam even when it was cloudy? Why was his chin _so _provocative? She pondered over him for a moment, trying to comprehend this obscure arrangement of facial features with the overall handsome charm he held as he played.

Yet her attention from him broke like a twig as the door of the restaurant swung open to reveal a man in a rather funny looking hat, Clara supposed it was the head chef. He looked cross, his eyebrows knit together to form a straight line. "You there! No soliciting on my restaurant property!" The violin screeched to a stop, the boy's face losing color at his words as he swiveled around to face the broad and menacing man. "You see these customers? They no want to hear some dirty street rat." he bellowed in a thick accent; Clara so frightened she didn't even wish to correct the errors in his English. "I give you two minutes, if you're not gone by then, I come back with knife." And with those final words and a sneer, he slammed the door shut. _Poor door. _Clara thought to herself. She was sure it would shatter.

A blush as red as blood crept up the boy's ears and neck, the same look Clara had at rehearsals. The much more elegant passerby tried not to notice, fanning themselves nonchalantly and trying to continue their small talk despite the uncomfortable atmosphere they had now been placed in. Running a grimy hand through his oily locks of brown hair, the boy picked up his flat cap empty of tips and nervously adjusted it onto his head, carefully placing his instrument back into its dusty velvet case. Clara wanted to punch that man of a chef, but more so, wanted to know if the boy was okay.

"Hey!" she called out to him once she noticed him walking away, realizing that her choice of greeting may have been too outright. The boy obviously looked a little shy, for the embarrassment had been caught in his throat. "I-I'm sorry to sound so intruding, but...you're _really _good." Clara gushed out, pointing back to where he stood before the restaurant window. "And if that pinhead of a man can't hear that, then..." Clara scoffed. "...he's deaf."

He looked surprised, as if he weren't expecting her to be so kind in the most blatant way. Casting glances between her and the restaurant door, he cracked a small, lopsided smile. "...a pinhead?"

She merely shrugged her shoulders. "Wouldn't want to use foul language around someone I just met." He looked nicer up close. His eyebrows were thin, she almost had to squint to see them.

A smile appeared upon his face for about a second, the look faded in the next, as if it were never there. He then nodded his head once in understanding. "Well, I'm glad this old thing was put to good use. Even if only one person noticed." he replied with a forced grin upon his face, holding up his violin case in slight defeat. And with that, he turned away from Clara and made his way down the sidewalk. Clara was rather taken aback, for she wasn't exactly finished talking yet.

"What's your name?" she blurted out, breaking into an awkward skip-run towards him.

"Why would you need to know my name?" the boy replied, seeing as if this conversation was of no use.

"Because what if I see you again?"

"Paris is a big city, perfect for getting lost in; trust me, we won't be meeting again."

"Not unless I _want _to see you again."

"And if I don't want to see _you _again, mademoiselle?"

"Why don't you want to talk to me-?"

"Because a pretty girl such as yourself..." he whirled around, almost knocking her to the ground. He hadn't realized she was standing so close; he could feel her soft breath on his chest. "...doesn't want to talk to a dirty street rat like me." he finished off, backing up the sidewalk a few paces. Clara was suddenly taken aback by his words, for she didn't see him as a street rat, nor did she see herself as very pretty.

"Well, this may come off as shocking to you," Clara offered dryly, crossing her arms over her chest. "But I'm a rat too."

The boy scoffed. "In what way?"

"A pointed-toe rat." she said, as if it were a title to be proud of. The boy didn't seem convinced, of all things he looked confused. She only sighed, for their conversation hadn't started the way she had intended it to be. "Let me start over. I'm Clara. Clara Oswald, beginner ballerina at Paris Opera." she introduced, sticking out her hand for him to shake. After much hesitance and a few sideways glances, he finally took it, shaking it firmly. "John Smith. Musician at...well, nowhere really." he admitted, holding onto her for longer than she had anticipated.

Laughing nervously, Clara pulled back her hand and stuffed it into her pocket, fiddling with the loose threads while looking down at her boots. John Smith. It was a common name for a common man, yet she'd never met one before, especially one such as he. "I'd give you a franc or two for your troubles, but you see, I have family back home to take care of and-"

"I understand. No worries." he interrupted, nodding his head grimly. "You really should be on your way though, weather doesn't look too forgiving." he said, and in unison, they both looked up at the sky, which had dimmed to a gloomy shade of grey. "...right." Clara said in a mere whisper, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen out of her bun behind her ear. "I should...I should get going."

"But thank you." he blurted out, realizing that he hadn't expressed his gratitude until then.

Clara only bit her lip, eyebrows drawing themselves together. "For what?"

"For giving me a bit of hope. As a violinist, that is. Hope that more people will see my music the way you did." he said, offering her a smile that she hadn't seen yet. One that reached his eyes. And for that, Clara smiled back. "I-uh...take this with you." he said, taking off his cap and placing it on her head. It was a bit large on her head; it covered her eyes. "Oh-!" she laughed shakily. "I couldn't possibly-"

"It's the least I can do." he said, wanting to repay her in any way that he could. Fingertips lifting the cap, Clara realized how close they were. His soft eyes and his teeth. Perfectly aligned. "H-How will I return it to you?" she asked weakly. He licked his lips. "We'll see each other again." he responded, looking down at her pretty face as she nodded. Her soft brown hair, her curious eyes.

Suddenly, as if she had woken up from a dream, Clara pulled away from his intangible grasp, turned on her heel, and ran away, hand holding onto the hat as far as she went. John backed up a bit as he watched her, not knowing what just happened, but knowing that he wanted it to happen again.


	3. Chapter 3

She returned a few days later to check for progress.

And likewise, The Doctor hadn't made any.

"I should have underestimated when they described you as 'the best in town.'" she mocked once she had found out of what little he had done, which was hardly anything at all. He merely shrugged his shoulders, the music box sitting atop of his workbench; Clara could even see a thin layer of dust that had settled atop of its velvet casing. "You haven't even touched it yet, haven't you?"

"Good work comes with patience, madame."

She scoffed, a noise that made his eyebrows perk up in suspicion, as if he had been offended by her throat comment. "It's been three days time and what have you done?" Clara blurted out suddenly, as if she were cross. Maybe she really was. "Doctor, I am your _only _customer." she stated as if to sound threatening, yet her opponent seemed to be the least bit of frightened.

"And for that, I am wholeheartedly thankful!" he sputtered out in defense; Clara observed his facial expression. The way his eyes widened as if to show that he was appreciative of her presence there, the bony hands whose fingers extended into different directions in an awkward state of fashion. This man was obscure, she knew, but she also got the sense that he wasn't taking her seriously. As if she were inexperienced and naive. "What do you take me for?" she asked, arms folded across her breast, her eyes narrowed into glaring daggers. "A child?"

"Well, certainly not a child, madame." he replied with no apology in his tone whatsoever. "But if you are seeking an answer, I would have to say, an amateur."

Her look of response did not seem so pleased.

"A novice. A _fledgling._" he offered to her. "Certainly, madame, you lack experience with your twenty-eight years of life on this planet. Surely you wouldn't find yourself so experienced."

"Well, more than you." she snapped back defensively. "All you do is sit in this dingy room all day wallowing in self-pity, tell me, are you even _aware _of life's definition?"

He was silenced, which wasn't a surprise considering his lack of communication, but this woman had stripped him dry of words. He motioned for her to pull up a stool and sit by him, which made her face scrunch up into that uneasy expression that made The Doctor's mind itch with irritation. Yet she did so, leaning her elbows on the old workbench as he finally found his voice again. "If you must know, I try my best to become aware." The corners of her lips turned upward in acknowledgement as she then looked downwards, shifting awkwardly in her seat before she said, "You paint?"

"Sorry?"

"The paintings," she clarified, pointing towards the back wall. He craned his neck, and sure enough, his artwork was there, staring at him with their pigments and brush strokes. "Ah, that was, a _very _long time ago." he stifled a dry laugh, wanting to forget what he just saw. "That wall, it's nothing significant."

"That wall is beautiful." she restated, hopping off of her stood to further investigate it. The Doctor let out a long sigh, his fingers raking his grey hair until he could gently tug at the roots. He hated people other than him seeing his work. It was like an author whose writing was discovered and read long before it was finished. He heard her footsteps creak the floorboards as she walked, giving each painting a special moment of her attention. "Well, for an introvert such as yourself, you seem to have captured all of Paris on this very wall." she spoke softly, admiring his work. A couple strolling down a city sidewalk. The Eiffel Tower ascending past the clouds into a land of itself. The windows of the Paris Opera House, little dancers twirling in their midst. Clara enjoyed that one the most.

"I'm sure that people would love your artwork Doctor." she finalized. "If only you opened shop."

"Don't expect me to be so easily persuaded." he replied, his head down on his dusty old table, his arms wrapping around himself to guard his thoughts from the humility.

"I wasn't trying to persuade you." she responded simply. "Just...giving you an idea."

After a few seconds without a single sign of conversation between the two, Clara decided it was time to leave the old man alone. "I'll be back in three days, I expect to see _something _happening to the little box. I'd even be impressed if you moved it three inches from where it stands now." she offered, which only made his face brighten up a little. Which, in return, made her smile back. "Goodbye." she waved, opening the door with a mighty effort, the cold climbing its way in. After she had left, he sat in pure silence for a few moments, almost wondering if he had gone numb.

With a slightly shaky hand, he reached for the cold music box, its velvet casing leaving traces of dust atop of his fingertips, and as he opened it, the tune became flooding out of it as if he had given it life. A tiny dancer, its paint cracked and faded, ascended and started twirling on its little pedestal. He had never seen or heart anything like it. And it immediately reminded him of her.


	4. Chapter 4

**_December 31, 1899_**

As Clara pulled back the shower curtain of the bathtub, a trail of curse words came streaming out of her mouth similar to the water that was currently pouring out of the sink faucet. She must have left it on when she hopped in the shower, creating an ocean of a flooded bathroom. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid me. _She reminded herself as she stepped out, cold and clammy and without a towel. Turning off the running faucet, Clara despondently stared at the water rings that formed around her planted feet, enlarging until they disappeared. _Tonight was supposed to be special, memorable, anything but flood free. _

Grabbing a white towel from the rack, she shakily laid it out onto the bathroom floor, its fabric absorbing the water immediately, it sinking below the surface like a sinking ship of disappointment. Remembering that she was supposed to use that towel on herself, she sighed into her hands as small drips of water fell from the tips of her hair, tracing paths atop of her skin. _God, do not cry. _

A small knock on the door sent her head snapping upwards at an instant. "Clara?" a soothing voice called out from the other side. "Clara, are you alright? Why...why is there water leaking out from underneath the door?"

Raking her soaking hair with her fingers, Clara panicked as she quickly searched the room for something to throw on. She finally settled upon a nightgown that she wore days ago from the laundry hamper, in spite of the cabbage and sweat smell, it was the best thing she had to clothes. Sitting on top of the toilet, she snatched the toilet paper from its respective hook and tried desperately to soak up the water with that. But it was like trying to slurp up a river with a teaspoon. "Clara..." His voice again. "Please let me in."

"It's open!" she almost screamed in aggravation, kicking her feet like a child. There was a slight silence at the other end, the door then opening to reveal a twenty-three year old lanky figure in the threshold. "John, John...I'm so sorry." Clara tried to apologize without choking on a sob, for his bathroom was entirely soaked. It was his flat after all, she had nothing if it weren't for him. "I-I don't know exactly what happened, I mean the overwhelming thought of paying the rent is...it's really hard to digest, and I guess I wasn't paying attention, and-"

"Clara, Clara, Clara..." John's reassuring way he said her name gave her a little spark of hope that he wasn't entirely angry at her. Making his way across the water, he reached his hand out to her, and she took it a little too soon it made her feel selfish. "You could flood a hundred bathrooms and I still wouldn't get mad at you..." he admitted with a laugh, and she couldn't help but smile back at him. She had started living with John last year; she was only nineteen and he was twenty-two. "And it's okay if this room smells a bit moldy for the next few weeks?"

"That's entirely okay with me." he flashed one of his 'grateful-that-you're-here' smiles, and Clara merely scoffed in reply. That smile was thankful for her cleaning and mediocre cooking, which was better than anything he could do himself. John was like a carnival ride, when she met him he was dead mysterious to her, a boy who was arrogant in his own self-pity. But when his awkward antic persona had shown, Clara wondered whether she was seeing the same man. He was gracious enough to offer half of his flat when her father moved for business, and it was more than she had ever hoped for. Clara shook her head. "I love you."

"I love you too." he replied, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Come on, I have something to show you."

Clara's eyes widened. "Have you even _realized _that boats could now travel our little bathroom ocean?" She stated flatly, hugging her knees to her chest. John only looked around, brow furrowing, as if to contemplate if it were really important or not. "Eh, the water will still be there when we get back." he concluded, and picking up Clara from her seat, he carried her to the living room, which was now lit with candles in celebration of the coming New Year. But that wasn't his main focal point. "Look honey, I cleaned!" he exclaimed proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

She could never have been more proud. "John, thank you, it's amazing." she said, her words sounding over exaggerated, her not caring at the same time. Placing her back on her feet, John picked up two flute glasses filled with champagne and handed one to her. Raising her eyebrows with a coy smile, Clara took the beverage just as he said, "And look, its almost midnight!"

Sure enough, it was. Atop of the coffee table sat a tiny mechanical clock that indicated that it was two minutes till the New Year, and just then was when Clara reminded herself of her resolutions. _This year, I'm going to crawl out of my debt. I'm going to find another job. I'm going to clean up that damn flooded bathroom. _

_I'm going to become a prima and star in my own ballet. _

She knew she was fantasizing, but dreams were dreams, and she was intent on making all of them a reality. And as the two counted down until twelve midnight, they both exclaimed in merriment as they clicked and drained both their glasses. Clara also made a promise to herself that she would make all of these dreams come true. "Happy New Year, John." she said.

He smiled back at her, a smile that she couldn't describe with her own words. "Happy New Year, Clara."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, I lied. I actually don't know how many chapters this story's gonna be! Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty, we'll see...**


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